


Fetish

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, PWP, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11902101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor takes Mairon to the Grinding Ice to watch him cry and moan.





	Fetish

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mairon is unequivocally beautiful like this, pressed down into the snow with his precious fire receding all around him. Melkor threads his dark fingers into Mairon’s pale digits, and he digs Mairon’s bruised knuckles down into the ice, _loving_ the way they hiss and crackle. Steam billows up around them, crushed under the bitter cold. Mairon’s crushed beneath him, trapped below his weight. But Mairon wouldn’t leave if he could. 

Mairon arches up and gasps, needy and rasping, “ _Master_.” His voice is a broken song. Melkor likes it best when it’s hoarse, run ragged from _this_ , Melkor’s body trapping down his little fame. Mairon trembles and groans, and Melkor leans lower, bending him more harshly, spreading his legs wider. Melkor rams into his creamy thighs, and Mairon mewls exquisitely, his golden eyes flying open. He looks at Melkor with such _lust_ that it’s almost pitiable. 

Melkor bends down to kiss him. When their lips seal together, Mairon almost seers him, but Melkor’s darkness always quenches Mairon’s fire. It’s even easier like this, in the raging winds of the Helcaraxë. They whip at Mairon’s many-coloured hair and toss yellow-orange-red strands about his pretty face. Melkor ends their scorched kiss to drag his pointed teeth down Mairon’s chin, and Mairon whines in pain. The Helcaraxë is a cruel, vile place. But it’s worth it to watch Mairon shiver and wane. 

Melkor won’t let Mairon be snuffed out, of course. When the end is near, and Mairon’s lightheaded from both the force of the land and his master’s will, Melkor will scoop him up and carry him swiftly home, away from this deadly cold. Until then, it’s a hammer Melkor wields with skill. He has no need to shape Mairon to his whims—Mairon is already _his_ , wholly and irrevocably. But he still enjoys wielding his power. And he enjoys the trust in Mairon’s eyes, the complete and utter willingness to _suffer_ at his master’s clawing hands. Melkor thrusts into him again and steals his breath away.

If only the others could see them like this. All those they’ve conquered, and all those they soon will, see Mairon’s power, but the don’t see the extent of Melkor’s—the breadth of his seduction. To them, Mairon is a burning flame that could turn even Manwë’s wings to ash. To Melkor, Mairon’s a trinket, a toy, a doll to be pressed into the earth and made to shrivel away from the wretched damp.

In some ways, Mairon is a worthy lover: one who would bear all of Melkor’s wants, pleasure or pain. Melkor delivers both in spades. He fills Mairon with both his rage and ardor, and Mairon’s eyes flutter in the warring ecstasy. He would cling to Melkor’s shoulders if Melkor allowed it—he usually does in their makeshift bed. But now Melkor holds him down and fucks him hard. He whimpers and _begs for it._

He comes only when Melkor hisses the order. This form of his is fragile, modeled after another kind, and though it bears their weakness, it’s fun for this—for the way Mairon comes so utterly undone in Melkor’s fierce grip. His ragged cry and shallow moan are melodious like nothing else, the fire of his body flaring to its peak before it dies. Melkor savours that final bout of Mairon’s molten core, and he spills himself into it, filling Mairon with his pleasure. Mairon takes it like praise, smiling dizzily and gone. Melkor kisses the corner of his mouth. 

Then Melkor releases Mairon’s hands. They fly around him. Melkor cocoons around his greatest masterpiece in the comfort of the darkness, and without a word, he spirits his Mairon away.


End file.
